


Passenger

by Karmageddon



Category: Firefly
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, Families of Choice, Gen, Post-Canon, Single Parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 12:48:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10719639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karmageddon/pseuds/Karmageddon
Summary: Zoë makes her way after Wash's death.





	Passenger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mareel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mareel/gifts).



Even after seeing her on the Comm, it’s a surprise Wash’s sister is so _young_.

Her skin is alabaster, dusted with freckles, crowned with a few tendrils of strawberry blonde hair making their way out of bun on top of her head. It seems ludicrous that such a small, fragile creature lives on such a rough moon. 

“May,” the fragile creature says, as if she thinks Zoë might have forgotten. She steps forward and extends a long, slim arm to shake hands. She has the calloused palms of a worker. Zoë doesn’t mind that May's clear blue eyes flicker across her abdomen. Zoë understands. 

“We're so glad you’re here.” May clutches a brown coat around her bony frame. The desert is cold in the early morning. When a little girl of no more than five peaks out from behind her skirts, it’s like seeing a ghost.

*

“You fought in the war, huh?”

Zoë nods at the ghost across the table. She’d thought the cheddar octopi she got at the spaceport would have bought her more goodwill. Or more time. Something.

“So you knew my dad, then?” The girl slides an octopus across the table between her small hands. She wears the faded but clean uniform of a low-income Alliance preschool. On her corner pocket: the yellow stars on a red, white, and blue field. 

“No, I--I didn’t.” Zoë can’t imagine what this small child might know about a war. “But I was sorry to hear what happened to him. When your momma told me.”

“But you must’ve known Mistress Bravestar. Because of her Famous Acts of Bravery.”

Zoë processes this for a moment.

“Hoban, Mistress Bravestar is just a cartoon,” May interjects from the stove, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. She's preparing a meal Zoë assured her was unnecessary, but her stomach is growling for cruelly. “Pretend, remember?” She uses a gentle, but nonetheless _we’ve talked about this before_ tone of voice.

The girl pops an octopus into her mouth and casts Zoë a glance that says Well We Both Know That's Not True.

*

May uses the same tone when she calmly explains that all Zoë’s plans are impossible. Credits? Impossible without working for the mines. Working for the mines? Impossible without a work permit. Work permit? Impossible without credits. Everything seems to be colluding to make her a burden on these two people who clearly do not need any additional burdens.

Zoë allows herself a full day of sitting in a chair, watching the sunshine come through a plastic suncatcher in the tiny window--a child-painted rainbow that says DREAM. She didn’t think, after living on a Firefly, that anywhere could feel cramped, but that was before she'd been in an Refugee-Issue Alliance Trailer (RIAT). But she thinks of her passenger.The passenger is even more cramped than she is, she reminds herself. The passenger has even fewer options.

May is a sweet girl, but she doesn’t understand that there’s always, always jobs that don’t require work permits. 

*

“You’re doing that wrong.”

“Excuse me?" Zoë tries to sound casual, but she’s exhausted, barely through the door after a 16 hour shift, and coming home to find a mountain of dishes, it’s hard to mask her annoyance at the input of a 4-year-old. She wipes the sweat from her forehead and lets the dish she was holding sink to the bottom of the water. She wishes she’d taken her uniform off before she’d gotten involved in this. She wishes May had put Hoban to bed before she left for work. She wishes—

“You’re doing it wrong. Soak, rinse, disinfect.” The girl rocks backward against the drawers, repeating, and it becomes sing-song, “soak, rinse—”

Zoë tries not to think about how much her feet hurt, how pregnant she is, how early she’ll be back at work tomorrow. “Okay, baby. Come here and show Aunt Zoë how to do it. I’m gonna go change clothes.”

She doesn’t mean to put on her night gown but she does.

When she gets back Hoban’s made a surprising amount of progress. It seems best to stay out of her way and instead go and pack her lunch for tomorrow and set out a fresh uniform (May washed one and hung it up, and discovering it, Zoë had felt a much bigger rush of gratitude than she intended). She thinks about how she should brush her teeth, knowing she won’t.

Hoban is almost done with the dishes when she gets back, so she lets herself sink down on the couch. Her swollen abdomen sticks off the cushions. The person inside, awakened by her sudden stillness, pokes at her ribcage like a dog testing a fence. A minute passes and she pulls the afghan over her.

“Hoban, brush your teeth and go to bed when you’re done,” she says absently. She doesn’t hear the reply.

*

“And then—and then he just—” May crumples, the winding stream of smoke from her cigarette illuminated by the screen behind her. It's a rare moment when they're both home. May is still wearing her coat indoors, even though their Alliance-issue heat subsidy came in that day. Zoë wraps an arm around her in a quick side-hug. Such gestures don’t come naturally to her. What can you say this woman, who lost a husband and a brother? Nothing is fair. 

“Mama, don’t cry over Daddy,” Hoban urges. She takes her mother’s hand, but her gaze doesn’t leave the cartoons. “He’s in heaven with Uncle Hoban playing Dinosaur Checkers.”

Suddenly Zoë isn’t sure if she’s laughing or crying.

*

“They’re here! They’re here!” Hoban squeals with excitement.

The door swings open and the trailer is flooded with cold early-morning air. Zoë inhales, pulling her knees toward her chest. The fabric of the couch is itchy against her cheek. Everything hurts. The squeezing in her abdomen is getting more urgent; the rhythm faster.

Two women in gray, stiffly-starched uniforms step inside. They don’t react to the relative squalor of the surroundings, to the fact that a four-year-old appears to be charge. One of them carries a midwifery bag. The other removes her cap. Zoë laughs to herself, realizing how comforted she is by the cut of their uniform, by the yellow stars on a red, white, and blue field. 

“Don't worry, ma'am” one of them says. “We’re here to help.”

They step forward into the light. 


End file.
